Posts

Showing posts with the label Macintyre (Ben)

Mitfords, pt. 3; body-text fonts, pt. 24: Sabon

Watching Branagh’s Much Ado, in installments. Samuel runs around yelling, “Hey, nonny nonny.”

Reading N. Mitford’s Wigs on the Green, a comic novel about an aristocratic teenage fascist. Somehow I didn’t expect this kind of heroine, although I knew about the Mitford sisters: “Diana the Fascist, Jessica the Communist, Unity the Hitler-lover; Nancy the Novelist; Deborah the Duchess and Pamela the unobtrusive poultry connoisseur” (Ben Macintyre’s descriptions, although he qualifies them as “caricatures”).


The novel is Springtime for Hitler-esque, but from before WW2 (1935).

I can understand why this family has a cult following. But the more I look into the Mitfords’ background, the less fantastical and more soberly realistic the novels seem.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Is there a name for the déjà vu-like feeling you get when you encounter the less recent past and relive the more recent past (or the present)? I got it today from some toilet-reading: the chapter on Andrew Jackson in Barbara Holland’s Hail to the Chiefs: Presidential Mischief, Morals & Malarkey from George W. to George W.


(The footnote says: “All except non-folks like women, blacks, and Indians.”)

The typeface is the Garamond-like Sabon.


(The footnote says: “ ‘Ignorant, passionate and imbicile’ and ‘fierce ungovernable temper’ were some of the kinder descriptions. Jefferson said he couldn’t possibly think of anyone worse to be President.”)

Notice how the italic letters are just as wide as the Roman letters. This feature is unusual for this sort of typeface. A successor, Sabon Next, has narrower italics.

Another mouse

We aren’t very sick anymore. I have to blow my nose a lot, but that’s the extent of it.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Last night, we saw a mouse in our basement. Get it, Jasper!, we said.

A little later, we saw our champion mouser trotting along, his mouth full, a bit of brown fuzz dangling out of it. Karin followed after Jasper with an empty potato-salad container. He tried to escape into one of his hidey-holes to play with his prize, but Karin caught him and he grudgingly released the limp thing.

It was a plastic toy. The bit of fuzz was a dust bunny. We didn’t see the mouse again.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

This, at last, is shaping up to be the August when I read all of Light in August.

Some more August reading:

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.

The Merchant of Venice.

Operation Mincemeat, by Ben Macintyre.

Storm, by George R. Stewart.

Something crime-ey as soon as I wind up The Dain Curse.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Ana & David and their children, Ada and George, will be in town from Saturday to Saturday.

Readings

What with heat indices of 100-plus (F) and a sputtering air conditioner, this has been a sultry week. The boys and I have spent much time in the cool basement. There is a precise boundary, on the basement staircase, between the cold and hot air masses.

More things I’ve been reading:

Joan Aiken, The Way to Write for Children. I thought this was terrific, even though I have no plans to write for children.

Ben Macintyre, The Spy and the Traitor.

Jim Thompson, The Killer Inside Me. What’s remarkable is how petty the narrator is. How twerpy. He gets as much (or more) of a thrill needling people as murdering them. I’m reminded of In Plain Sight, the TV series about the real-life Scottish serial killer Peter Manuel.

Sylvia Townsend Warner, Mr Fortune’s Maggot, about a South Seas missionary (and I just finished Lolly Willowes).

All of Montaigne. This could take a while.